


Perspectives

by ryucreates



Series: Drabbles cause im tired and writing [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, Mentions of Death, and blood, if u couldnt tell, im tired again, slight gore ig?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:07:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27626531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryucreates/pseuds/ryucreates
Summary: takes on life are different, yofirst paragraph is a NNN thingy i guess
Series: Drabbles cause im tired and writing [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2019890





	Perspectives

**Author's Note:**

> im here again

The story starts like this:

Police brutality has been going on for centuries, whether it be by murdering innocent people, or by mistreating suspects, or by domestic abuse, or by sexual assault, or by harassment of any kind. 

This is not because they make mistakes, this is due to a corrupt system.  
This is due to centuries of racism, ableism, sexism, and bigotry. 

Maybe there is a police officer who has done good, never been corrupt, never stood by as atrocities were committed, but the numbers of those are outweighed by the ones that are not.  
Maybe there is a good cop. 

Maybe there is something worth working after, some system to keep everyone safe- not the police, not the judicial system- but people. 

Maybe. 

\-----------

The stories go like this:

A man ran out of a hospital last Sunday, brandishing a scalpel and leaving a trail of blood.

A police officer showed up on the scene, and after several attempts to calm the man were made, the officer drew their weapon and shot the man twice in the stomach. 

There was no arrest made, and life continued on, one less danger in the world. 

\-----------

The story went like this:

There was a man, diagnosed with early onset dementia and severe paranoia. He had undergone five treatments for cancer that year, and was living in an extended stay room. 

His nurse left the door locked, but the window was not. 

\-----------

The rumors go like this:

He didn’t like the medication, they made him forget.  
He didn’t like the doctors, they were rude.  
He liked his family, weren’t they cute?  
Wasn’t his wife the best?  
He hadn’t seen her in forever (three days).  
Couldn’t wait to see his youngest graduate (nine years late).  
Didn’t want to miss his brother’s birthday, wasn’t it in a week? (four months past)

He wanted to leave.  
He never did. (fourteen separate escapes across a broad three years of stay, all just to go to an old home in Clear Lake)

He didn’t know what the scalpel was, when he grabbed it. 

He didn’t know. 

\-----------

The memory started like this:

The pencil on the counter was always there. It had never not been, never moved, he always made sure to put it back. 

Some days he lost, other days he could remember everything that had happened to him- those days were arguably the worst. 

He could never remember it all. 

There was always something missing- but as soon as he remembered, he forgot. 

The pencil was on the counter. 

His sketchbook was on his lap- he just started it the other day, and must have been busy, for half the pages were bursting with life. 

He didn’t like the nurses, they always tried to move his pencil. 

They never wanted it right where he needed it. 

There was a new one almost every day, it seemed. 

He must have warded them off, to go through so many in such a short period of time. 

It had only been a month, after all. 

The sun was shining through the window, and he couldn’t find his glasses. 

They weren’t where he put them, but he supposed that was the nurse’s fault. 

They must have been new, they kept leaving things everywhere. 

His pencil was not on the counter. 

A bag was on the counter. 

He rubbed his eyes, and opened the bag- files and boxes and pens came out, but not his pencil. 

He found a pencil, but not his- his was silver and shining and metal, a gift from his wife- S.G engraved on the handle, his wife’s initials, neatly formed. 

There was a silver thing in the bag, so he grabbed it, but his hand must have slipped, because his fingers panged with dull pain as he pulled the pencil out. 

He looked at it for a second, noticing the way the little red droplets made their way down the handle, dripping onto the counter and sliding to the floor below. 

He turned around, and saw the window at the end of his room. 

He hadn’t ever sketched there before, always choosing to stay on the bed or by the counter. 

It was new and interesting, so he held the pencil, cramps shooting up his hand as he did, and grabbed his sketchbook. 

Sitting and sketching at the window was fun, he decided. He’d have to do it more often. 

His hand still hurt. 

He must have used a red pen somewhere on a page before- some of the ink was bleeding through onto his page, so he closed the book and tossed it to the side before reaching a hand up to the clasp on the window. 

He didn’t think the window would open. 

He didn’t think that he’d fall out of it, onto the soft grass three feet below. 

There were a lot of things he didn’t think of, he decided. 

The window had shut behind him, so he walked towards the entrance back into the building from the courtyard he had fallen into. 

He must have started running at some point, still holding the pencil, and must have gotten turned around- and there were the hospital doors. 

They opened as he ran past them, ran past startled looking people, ran past a yelling nurse or doctor- it was like his legs couldn’t stop-

It was like he couldn’t stop. 

He fell down, catching himself on his knees and palms- there was red on the ground underneath him, his pencil still clutched in his hand. 

There was red on his hands, his arms, and his chest. 

And as he looked at the red, his chest exploded into an inferno- raging loudly yet quietly in his mind- he couldn’t hear anything, felt hands gripping him, something shaking him, something wet and warm on his lips, and then-

Nothing. 

He felt nothing. 

\-----------

History goes like this:

Ru “Snips” Gillespiel, a world famous ISA officer and civil rights activist, was killed on Tuesday, April seventh, 2052. 

He was retired, and diagnosed with early onset dementia and a severe case of paranoia. 

Sunday morning, he woke up disoriented, and grabbed a left over scalpel from a nurse’s bag and cut himself on accident with the blade. He then made his way through the hospital he was in extended stay at, and upon exiting the hospital, was shot twice in the abdomen by a young police officer. 

He was kept on life support for two days, after which brain signals ceased and he was declared dead. 

He was 47.

**Author's Note:**

> aaa


End file.
